The Life She Wanted: A Novel(72)

“Pandora.” A male voice interrupted her thoughts. “Come join us.”

The man stood up and waved. It was Maurice, at a table at an outdoor café with Nanette.

Pandora crossed the square and joined them.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “I don’t want to interrupt your lunch.”

“You’re not interrupting, and we’re only having coffee,” Maurice replied companionably. He turned to Nanette. “Pandora is a guest at Suzanne’s villa.”

“We already met.” Nanette nodded. She held a cigarette, and a pearl cigarette case lay open in front of her. “I gave Pandora your cigarette case.” She looked pointedly at Maurice. “I was sure you wouldn’t want to be without it.”

Maurice motioned for Pandora to sit down.

“Nanette is a fit model for a couturier in Paris,” Maurice said.

“It can be boring to have pins stuck in you all day.” Nanette took a drag of her cigarette. “But it pays well, and I can borrow dresses whenever I like.”

“You see, America isn’t the only place where women are becoming independent.” Maurice lit a cigarette and inhaled sharply. “Soon, women won’t need men at all.”

Nanette chose to ignore him. She turned to Pandora instead.

“Is your husband traveling with you?” she asked.

Pandora shook her head.

“I’m a widow. I’m with my daughter and nanny,” she said vaguely.

“Pandora has a talent for fashion design.” Maurice pointed to her handbag. “She keeps a notebook of her sketches.”

Pandora had shown Maurice the sketchbook the first week she spent at the villa. But since she arrived she hadn’t been able to draw any new dresses. Instead, she had filled the sketchbook with drawings of Esme at the beach and Suzanne playing tennis.

“Can I see?” Nanette leaned forward.

Pandora handed her the notebook, and Nanette flipped through the pages.

“These are wonderful,” Nanette commented. “I saw Suzanne play at Wimbledon in 1925. It was unbearably hot; I almost fainted.” She turned to the next sketch. “If only the spectators were allowed to dress the same as the players. British women dress for Wimbledon as if they’re going to the theater. In stockings and gloves and felt caps. It’s the same at the French Open. I’ll never watch tennis again.”

It was true. Since coming to the French Riviera, Pandora had spent long afternoons in the sun, watching Suzanne cross the tennis court in lightweight outfits that would have been considered scandalous in New York, while Pandora herself wore stockings and one of her tea dresses that covered her ankles. It would be even more unbearable during the summer.

Pandora could feel the beginnings of a great idea growing in her head. She jumped up and grabbed the notebook from the table.

“I have to go,” she announced. “I have a prior engagement.”

Maurice glanced at her curiously.

“You haven’t had your café au lait,” Maurice offered.

Pandora was too excited to stay a minute longer. She nodded at Nanette. “It was a pleasure to meet you; I’m sure I’ll see you again.”





Pandora spent the rest of the afternoon at the dressing table in her room. For the first time since Harley died and her boutique burned in the fire, she couldn’t draw fast enough. She filled page after page with dresses and cardigans and sweaters.

Up until now, her dress designs had been inspired by her favorite designers: Chanel, Jeanne Lanvin, Elsa Schiaparelli. They were all elegant and refined, dresses that society women would wear to weekend house parties and dances. Pandora’s new designs were different, unlike anything any other designer had created. At five o’clock she was finished. She hadn’t eaten all day and was tempted to find something to eat in the kitchen. But she was too excited. She wanted to share her idea now, to find out if she had something.

Pandora found Suzanne flopped on a sofa in the living room. She suspected Suzanne hadn’t moved all day. A magazine lay open beside her, and a tray with half a sandwich sat on the coffee table.

“Where have you been?” Suzanne inquired. “Maurice is still out, but everyone else is swimming.”

“I’ve been busy,” Pandora replied. “Could I borrow your car? I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Does it involve a man?” Suzanne raised her eyebrows.

Pandora smiled. “Not exactly. It’s nothing really, I’ll tell you when I return.”





The villa where Jean Patou was staying perched high in the hills above Cap Ferrat. It was more elegant than Suzanne’s villa, with marble arches and a red-tiled roof like a Moorish castle. Palm trees flanked the entrance, and a fountain murmured in the rose garden.

A maid answered the door. Pandora suddenly felt embarrassed. She should have called first. Jean Patou was a well-known designer; he wouldn’t have time to see Pandora. But she had been afraid she’d lose her nerve. And it would have been difficult to explain over the phone. It was better to talk with him in person.

Jean appeared behind the maid dressed in a smoking jacket and open-necked shirt. His pants were black silk, and he wore gold slippers.

“Pandora, what a pleasant surprise,” he said in greeting. “How is everyone at the villa?”